


The Guest in My Home

by Ketlingr



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Old Age, Old Tony Stark, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17516000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketlingr/pseuds/Ketlingr
Summary: Peter was always pleasantly surprised when he entered the small apartment. It didn’t smell like old people. It really was what bothered him most about his job. He was glad that Mister Stark did not smell like that. He never did, when Peter came to visit.





	The Guest in My Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thorkified](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorkified/gifts).



Peter was always pleasantly surprised when he entered the small apartment. It didn’t smell like old people. It really was what bothered him most about his job. Not only did all the places he worked at smell like old people, eventually his clothes had begun to smell like old people, too. By now, sometimes Peter thought even he himself smelled like old people. It wasn’t their fault, of course, Peter knew that, and that it had nothing to do with hygiene or airing the rooms. They couldn’t help it. Still, he was glad that Mister Stark did not smell like that. He never did, when Peter came to visit.

“Mister Stark?” he called out and glanced around the corner. Peter did not expect any response, there was never any and he wasn’t even sure the old man could actually still hear him. “It’s Peter, I’m coming to clean up a little. I brought lunch, too,” Peter kept speaking loudly into the apartment. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it was empty. But he found Mister Stark as expected sitting by the window, looking out. There was a wall in front of his window, another house that blocked most of the sunlight except for a small strip that Mister Stark seemed to follow around with his chair, even though Peter never actually saw him move.

“The wall looks dry, must be nice weather outside,” Peter commented, unpacking the man’s lunch for him. It was nothing special, the old folks never got anything special. Peter wished they’d at least get something special once in a while, maybe someday he’d bring Mister Stark a cheeseburger. If only he knew if the old man liked cheeseburgers…

While Mister Stark ate - slowly and with the motions of a man who no longer had the motor control to uphold the good manners he’d been taught in his youth - Peter went about cleaning the living room. He rearranged the cushions on the couch, flattened from being sat on, he dusted the shelves and saved the roomba from the blanket it had gotten itself caught in. Picked up the blanket and folded it up neatly to be laid over the armrest of the couch. He began humming after a while, occasionally singing a few words he remembered to a song he couldn’t quite name. He often did that, singing to himself while he worked, because it didn’t seem to bother Mister Stark. The old man probably couldn’t hear it anyway, and if he did, he did not seem to care.

 

Tony wished the boy would stop singing. And yet, with every half-phrase, every piece of melody the boy hummed, Tony wished equally to hear more.

The boy had a beautiful voice, still growing into its depth, but clear and soft without being boyish. Even though he was just a boy. Tony wondered when boys had become so young. He didn’t watch the boy work, too busy watching himself eat, because if he did not, most of the food would miss its mark and stain his clothes. And Tony really did not want the kid to think he had to redress him. If he could choose, the kid would not even come, but then what would this place come to. It wasn’t as though he could walk around and take care of things anymore. And if he could have, there would be so many more pressing things he would want to do instead. It was good to have the boy. It was all right.

 

Every so often, Peter would bring Mister Stark his mail. There was never much, on most days there was nothing at all. Rarely, there was a hand-written letter, and those always made Mister Stark look distant, made his hands shake a little more, and sometimes he would put on music afterward while Peter worked in the kitchen. Never loud music, which made Peter wonder if he could truly hear it, or just played it to salute the latest of his friends who had departed.

Once, Peter had sung along to the music Mister Stark had put on, and the old man had gotten up from his chair and all but stormed towards him, gripping his wrist with a strength he had not expected from a man of Mister Stark’s age and stature. But he had not spoken, merely stared at Peter as though he was a particular menace, and then turned to turn off his music. It was the closest thing resembling a conversation they had had, and at least now Peter knew that the old man could indeed hear him sing. And he did care, it seemed, at least while his music played.

 

There were no pictures in Tony’s apartment. He did not like to be watched by the dead, and too few of his friends were still alive. Taking their pictures down week after week would have been too much of a hassle. Tony did not wait for the letters, but he knew they would come nonetheless. One by one. Name after name, and Tony wondered who would be left to send a letter to once he died. Not that it mattered, with nobody to write such a letter.

 

One day, Mister Stark was not in his chair. Peter was more worried than he had thought, and when he found the old man still in his bed, he approached slowly. Whether to avoid startling him or to avoid being startled should the old man still move, he could not say.

 

Mister Stark was still in bed a week later. Only now he barely looked like Mister Stark anymore, or perhaps like half of himself. Peter still cleaned his apartment, but his work did not take as long anymore. The cushions did not need rearranging, the roomba was not stuck, no blankets needed folding. Instead of humming under his breath while he went around the small apartment, Peter sat next to the bad and sang. Old songs, whatever came to mind. For most of them, Mister Stark barely moved to show he was listening. He simply stared out of the window or slept. But some made him smile softly to himself, and a few made him cry.

The first time Mister Stark had cried, Peter had stopped singing, but the old man had looked up and reached out to him, and so he had continued, his voice breaking more with every new dark circle spreading on the collar and front of Mister Stark’s nightshirt. He had never seen anyone weep so openly.

 

There was a list on the bedside table, written in unsteady letters. Three names and addresses. Underneath the list lay three envelopes and matching thick stationery. Peter understood.

 

On Wednesday night, Peter was singing for Mister Stark again. The old man looked more awake than he had in days. Halfway through the second verse, Peter forgot his words, distracted by the mirth on the old man’s face. He started again, a few lines back, but the words wouldn’t come. About to apologize, Peter fell silent at the sound of a warm, sonorous voice picking up where his memory had left him. Mister Stark’s voice was, just like his hands, stronger than Peter had expected. It must have been trained once, to still be so beautiful and glide over the notes so easily even now.

Tonight, it was the boy’s turn to weep and listen.

 

When Peter returned the next day, he sat down to write a letter. There was no more work to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to the song "City Bird" by Jesca Hoop. On repeat. For like... an hour or so. I don't remember for how long, actually. It's 5 in the morning and I did not sleep. I'm not sure if this story makes sense, I'll find out about that tomorrow. Also, I guess I'm... sorry? I'll find out about that tomorrow as well, I guess.


End file.
